The Dark Circus

by Ana Ballabriga

  “Let’s stop beating around the bush,” the bishop snapped. “Where is this alleged pile of evidence linking me to matters that are, let us say, distasteful but essential to my work?”

  “Right here.”

  “Show it to me.”

  “Of course.” L walked up to him and, under the vigilant gaze of the bodyguard priest, handed him the folder.

  The bishop seized her wrist and stared intently into her eyes. “Incredible. The devil is truly a master of temptation.”

  “My face was painted by the brush that dangles between your legs.” L pulled free and retreated several steps.

  The bishop flipped through the documents with little apparent interest. “Did you copy this material?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked up. “And what do you want?”

  “I want you to resign and publicly confess your crimes.”

  “You know I won’t do that.”

  “Then I’ll release that information far and wide.”

  “Assuming I let you out of here.”

  “News has legs. If I don’t leave here, it goes running off all by itself in every direction.”

  “You really think Elías is capable of betraying me to that extent? You’ve turned his head with your whore charms, clearly, but he’ll come to his senses once you’re gone.”

  “I didn’t say Elías would send it. Even if that is so, I doubt he’ll want to come back to earth now that he’s tasted the nectar of the gods.” She was doing her best to appear equally nonchalant. Everything depended on that. “Of course, anyone can see he’s my brother. The whelp of his slut mother.”

  “Hold your tongue, you filthy cunt!”

  The pope cackled in amused appreciation.

  The bishop fought back his ire and managed to speak. “What it comes down to is this: I let you walk away and you release those documents; or I prevent you from leaving and take the risk someone else will do it for you.” He paused theatrically as if thinking it over. “I think I’ll take the risk. Besides, I’m sure I’ll be able to persuade you to tell me where the copies are hidden.”

  He signaled to the priest bodyguards. They converged on L. She didn’t resist.

  “I suggest you say nothing,” the pope whispered in her ear and gave her a wink. L looked at him, at a loss. “It’s your choice, of course! But no matter what you do or say, you’re not getting out of here alive.”

  The priests handcuffed her and marched her to a side door. The bishop took out a key and unlocked it. A shiver of fear shot through her.

  This room was small and dingy. Goya’s infamous Witches’ Sabbath dominated the long wall. Could it be a copy? She’d thought the painting was in a Madrid museum.

  “This collection,” the bishop said, indicating artifacts set here and there on the checkerboard pattern of the floor, “is a special favorite of mine. Here you’ll find instruments designed by our dearly beloved Holy Inquisition.”

  The pieces were gathered in three groups. First were those designed for public humiliation: iron masks, studded iron collars, and a sanbenito, an enormously heavy cask with openings for the head and the feet. The second collection contained interrogation aids, including a chair with spikes, a Judas cradle, a brazier and grill, a water torture device, a rat cage that fastened to the abdomen, and all sorts of implements employed to crush, mutilate, or destroy parts of the body, including a vaginal pear and a breast ripper. The third collection contained items used for executions. L saw a garrote, a guillotine, funnels to force liquid down the throat and burst the stomach, saws, a gallows, crosses, wheels to disjoint and rip off limbs, and a Phalaris bull, a hollow metal contraption within which heretics were locked and roasted alive.

  “Of course!” she exclaimed. “I forgot: you lost your little lapdog Midas, so now you have to get your own hands dirty.” Her tone was cocky and defiant despite her dismay. “I’m just surprised your other little puppy isn’t here.”

  “If you’re referring to Alfredo, he opted not to attend.” The bishop smiled. “He’s a sensitive soul, really, and the procedures we’re about to demonstrate might disturb him.”

  He surveyed the collection. “You can thank the people of your village for my interest in these instruments. After I recovered from their farewell party, a year in the hospital and four operations later, I found they’d awakened in me an abiding fascination with physical pain. I needed to know more, to understand how much a body can endure. And today, finally, you’re going to gratify me. I’ve never had the opportunity to practice with them before now. But don’t worry; we’ll start with something simple. I understand that the rack is usually quite effective.”

  The younger men hoisted her onto a wooden platform flanked by gears and pulleys. They removed the cuffs and secured her to the machine by knotting ropes around her wrists and ankles. L concentrated on deep breathing, detaching herself from a reality about to become a nightmare.

  The pope took a seat by the bishop. “Today we reach the culmination of a crusade begun many years ago!” He smiled with a mixture of irony and nostalgia. “You know, I once tried your W potion.”

  L craned her neck to look at him even though her arms were tightly bound. This man was full of surprises.

  “I heard of the marvels of a wine they made in a tiny village in the wilds of the Pyrenees, so one day I decided to travel there to try it. The blood of Christ may manifest itself in many different flavors, some of which share more than others the divine properties of the original. In that remote village, I discovered that the wine wasn’t what counted; rather, it was a substance derived from it that absolutely everyone praised to the skies. And to my great misfortune, I did try it.” He paused for a moment and sighed. “I grew up in a relatively affluent family in Zaragoza. I lost my father at the age of three, and my mother’s ardent desire was that her only son might devote his life to God. And I did. I became a dynamic young priest. I was seen in all the poorest neighborhoods of the city, where my sole preoccupation was providing food and counsel to those families most in need. I wanted nothing more than to see the children smile as they filled their bellies. I was sure I was following the true way, the path to our Lord.

  “But then came the day I sipped that concoction. And it destroyed my life. You’ve never had a crisis of faith.” He looked toward the bishop. “And neither has he. Neither of you knows how fortunate you are. It’s as if a veil falls away and reveals to you all the magician’s tricks. I saw that my life had been based on an absurdity. All the light went out of existence. For a full year, I wanted only to die. I stayed inside; I didn’t let anyone see me; I lost almost all appetite. I hated my mother so passionately that she died of a broken heart. Then, just as it seemed to me my best option would be to blow my brains out, I recalled the words of a little boy, a disciple I’d taken in a few years before.” He gave the bishop an affectionate glance. “‘People say we’re poor, but I always say that’s not true, since the greatest poverty is ignorance of God.’” He looked at L again. “And those words showed me the true path.”

  He gestured to the young priest to turn the handle controlling the gears of the rack, then signaled to stop when the ropes were stretched tight.

  The bishop spoke again. “Where did you put the evidence?”

  L ignored him and spoke to the pope. “And what path was that?”

  “People need to believe in God. No matter how idiotic it may seem to claim that a superior being created us and watches over us, it’s a great comfort. It permits one to live without anguish, firm in the hope of paradise after one’s death. Thanks to that boy, I saw that my mission was to sustain people’s happiness, to transmit the word of Christ so no one would suffer the torments I’d undergone when I realized that death was the end of everything. If there was no God protecting us, then I would take His place. I vowed to take care of fellow human beings. And so, I set new goals, the first of which was getting to the very top of the Church hierarchy.”

  “I’m tempted to call you
crazy, but you’re not.” L gave him a withering look. “The truth is you’re just ambitious and depraved.”

  “You’re wrong about that. Everything I did to advance my career was for the sake of others. To protect them and shield them from the suffering I’d faced when I saw the truth.”

  “I assume it’s true you murdered the previous pope so you could take his place.”

  “Why on earth would you think such a thing?” He smiled. “Even if it were true, it wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve done in my long career.”

  “And what was that? The worst thing?”

  “The worst was failing to suppress your W before it came to this.” He smiled with brilliant vehemence, appreciating his own wit. He gestured to the priest to turn the handle a bit more.

  “Does Elías have the evidence?” the bishop asked insistently. “Where is it?” He gave her a couple of seconds. “Turn it again!”

  L felt her arms, legs, and shoulder muscles stretch. Pain shot through her. She tried to relax, but it was no use. She was no longer in control of her breathing. She abandoned the effort, but did her best to keep her mind blank. The agony gradually subsided to something she could transcend, an urgent message she stifled and shut away in some small compartment where it couldn’t reach the surface of her consciousness.

  The pope went to her and patted her cheek. “And I assure you we did our best.” L opened her eyes and looked at him with rage, gritting her teeth. “Having experienced that potion’s devastating effects, eliminating it became my highest priority—along with the village where it was made and the people who knew how to make it. When they named me archbishop of Pamplona, I gave the assignment to my most trusted assistant, and he did an outstanding job. Even so, those miserable beggars kept making their poison and handing it out it everywhere they went. When at last I ascended to St. Peter’s throne and placed my bishop in the appropriate position, we decided to resume our hunt.” The pope gave her face a lingering caress. “You’re the last one left. When you die, the devil’s poison dies with you.”

  He looked to the priest, who cranked another half turn. L’s tendons were stretched to the breaking point, and her bones were about to tear free of their sockets. The pain was horrific. She closed her eyes and her mind went blank. They were torturing someone else, not her.

  “Last chance,” the bishop urged. “Are you going to tell me where that evidence is?”

  L didn’t reply.

  “Bring the claw!”

  The second young priest approached with a knife in one hand and a metal cat’s claw in the other. The implement resembled a rusty iron rake with four sharp teeth. He used the knife to cut off her clothes. Then he placed the claw on her chest and dragged it downward, slicing her skin and leaving four deep furrows that welled up with blood.

  “Deeper!” snarled the bishop.

  The priest raked her again, this time tearing off strips of flesh and mangling her breasts. L could restrain herself no longer; from deep within her came a bloodcurdling scream. The pain was too intense to block out. She fought with her whole spirit, trying to regain control and empty her mind, trying to master the pain.

  The bishop sounded beside himself. “Again!”

  “Stop!” the pope commanded. “Any more and she’ll bleed to death.” He signaled to the other priest. “More. A full turn of the handle, please.”

  The priest obeyed and stretched L’s arms so tight that they dislocated from her shoulders. Even the bishop was terrified by her animal scream.

  Then she passed out.

  51

  After L blasted her way out of the nautical-themed club that housed Midas’s brothel, she abandoned the stolen car in the center of Cartagena. She had to hide somewhere no one could find her, so she went to the Muralla del Mar building where one of her clients owned a whole floor. He was Russian and claimed to be involved in tuna farming and exporting. The climb to the sea wall seemed endless. She kept looking behind her, unable to shake the feeling she was being followed. When she finally reached the fancy building, she took an elevator to the penthouse, opened the blinds, and reveled in the impressive panorama of the port below.

  She tossed the book she’d used as a shield onto the coffee table and went straight to the bathroom. Sliding into a warm bath, her only thought was of vengeance. She remembered Midas’s sadistic smile, his cold-blooded murder of her uncle, and the casual way he’d turned her over to be raped by his lackeys and clients. She needed a plan; she had to put out the fire of revulsion consuming her from deep inside. She wrapped herself in a terrycloth robe and left the bathroom.

  She looked down at the book on the table. Opening it, she found two bullets lodged inside. She teased them out with her fingertips. She rifled through some drawers until she found clear tape. Over the course of an hour, she painstakingly pushed back into place each fragment of paper displaced by the bullets and taped them down. Then she went to the kitchen, took a package of frozen sushi from the freezer, and put it in the microwave to thaw. Then she carried her sushi, a bottle of wine, and a glass out to the living room. She settled onto the sofa to eat and read.

  She’d never had the slightest interest in the Marquis de Sade, but after everything that had happened, she almost felt she owed the book something.

  L had heard talk about the marquis and his writing, including the perversions that had given rise to the term sadism, and she was expecting some crude pornographic narrative, a catalog of depravity. But she was drawn in by his style and by the characters, the self-proclaimed libertines dedicated to educating young Eugénie, destroying the girl’s virtuous soul.

  The first rays of sunrise were coming through the balcony window when she closed the book. L climbed into bed, but tossed and turned as she tried to process it all. She was startled by the similarities between de Sade’s philosophy and the views drummed into her in the circus. Her uncle and the rest had rejected conventional morality and were obsessed with the pursuit of pleasure. Their only limits were the ideals of equality and loyalty enforced by the community itself. L’s own moral views had evolved since then.

  L didn’t agree with de Sade about the unbounded pursuit of pleasure. Considered from the Cathar viewpoint, the material world was of no importance, so it followed that the body was equally without value. Meditation was the only path to enlightenment. Doing good meant helping others attain greater happiness during their earthly existence. They, in turn, did the same for others. Thus, the prison imposed by our material existence became less onerous, freeing people to turn their minds to meditation. And when a state of pure meditation was attained, it assured indifference to earthly pleasures. De Sade was correct in asserting that no moral prohibitions should limit pleasure; however, his mistake was believing people should seek out their own pleasure, rather than that of others.

  L vividly remembered what had happened with Doris and Damián. In their pursuit of unlimited pleasure, they’d kidnapped a woman, raped her, tortured and murdered her. The community’s support of that unjustifiable act was in defense of the principle that solidarity trumped justice and other basic values. And although only Damián and Doris had gone to prison, the community had been destroyed and its members dispersed.

  She used her phone to search for information about de Sade and found the prologue to Aline and Valcour, or a Philosophical Novel. Her eyes were bleary after the sleepless night, but one line snapped into place in her mind like the missing piece of a puzzle: My brushes are too strong; I smear vice with strokes that are too vile. Do you wish to know why? I don’t want it to be loved. I will always paint it with the colors of hell: I want it to be seen in its nakedness, to be feared and detested, and I know no other means of achieving this than by showing it in all its characteristic horror.

  L grinned, switched off the phone, and snuggled down in bed. At last, she could sleep, having seen the path to follow. She had discovered her reason for living.

  She didn’t want to do away with religion or even with the Church. Her sole wi
sh was for renewal. For the Church to return to its origins and embrace the true teachings of Christ. One pope had tried that several years earlier, and he hadn’t lasted long.

  All she had to do was get close to the bishop via some member of his inner circle. She’d run into his vicar at Midas’s bar and had seen immediately that the foolish man was secretly obsessed with perversion. She knew without being told that he occasionally faltered, unable to subjugate his corporeal urges to the celibacy with which the Church mortified its leaders.

  L knew she could help him. By offering a sexual outlet that allowed him to pretend he was unsullied, she could gain his confidence. She envisioned an encounter in a restaurant, a chance conversation in which she’d tell the vicar of her sinful profession, her need for private confession and redemption that only he could provide.

  52

  Water splashing on her face brought her back to life. Another bucketful revived the intense pain throughout her body. Her arms seemed not to exist, for when she commanded them, there was no response. Nor could she move her body or head. She opened her eyes with difficulty.

  “Back at last,” the bishop smiled.

  His expression revolted her, but that hardly mattered. She was cold, terribly cold. She could smell her own blood, urine, and feces.

  “We celebrated Mass in the cathedral while you were having your little nap, but His Holiness couldn’t resist coming back to try one more instrument—the head crusher.” He leaned over and peered into her face. “I took pity upon you, however, and managed to convince him to set you free if you tell me where that evidence is.”

  L’s Cathar beliefs included reincarnation. The flesh was of no value. The only true essence was the spirit, which was obliged to purify itself through a long succession of lives until it was ready once more to merge with the monad. She didn’t know if she’d yet reached that high level of spirituality and readiness to return to the origin. But that didn’t matter. The worst that could happen would be a reincarnation and another opportunity to strive after purity.